


open windows

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If this isn’t an opportunity to just stick his finger up to all that’s held him back, to give his life a try at something else, it’s better to snatch it up sooner rather than later. </i>
</p><p>James finds he's more alike to Clint than he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	open windows

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Firstly, I dedicate this to Brittany, (@directorstarks), as she made me love Clint/Bucky, so. 
> 
> Second, this is my first time writing them as a couple, so yes, it'll be quite fast-paced and maybe a bit unrealistic — in my opinion, as I'm still getting used to them, as individuals also — but I hope it's good. It's shorter than I wanted, but again, I need to explore them more first. Unbeta'd, as usual.

Sometimes, when darkness is the only thing that exists in his mind, and the whispers that assault him can only belong to his imagination, he thinks he’s gone insane. 

He thinks it’s maybe from the reminder of his inhuman strength — the crushed dry wall opposite his bed when he lost his temper an example, and it feels as if the dust is still under his fingernails — or the flashes he gets behind his eyelids in the dead of night where he hopes no one can hear his screams, or maybe the curses in Russian that he barely notices he says anymore. He thinks (it’s the only thing he can do, every little thing) he isn’t this Bucky those believe him to be.

Under the guards he tries to keep fenced around him, he sees this Bucky. He listens to the voice of his memories, the battles he faced with friends he cared for. It doesn’t feel right. He’s been given a name, but it just feels like a label.

Even then, as he’s thrown back into the mind of another man, there are moments where he cannot escape the Winter Soldier. He thinks of ways he can kill someone, sweeping over the length of their neck and how easy it would be to snap it with one hand. It’s impossible to avoid, with knowledge that’s an instinctive dust that sparks at unexpected times, a burden that causes bile to rise in his throat, enough to choke on. He hates to admit that these someone’s can be friends, or people he considers close, albeit based on a fractured sense of trust.

He stills, and stops flipping the knife between his fingers.

‘Just me, Barnes.’ The knife handiwork doesn’t faze him, apparently, as he continues. ‘Comb your hair, polish your arm, and do whatever else you do, cause we’re going out.’

‘Much as I’d love to join your gang —’

‘Sorry, but it’s obligatory. Captain’s orders.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, the metal cool against his skin. ‘I don’t feel like drinking, pal.’

‘You don’t have to drink. And if Steve doesn’t mind, you can take your toy.’

It’s supposed to be a joke, except it’s not, (of course that’s not his perspective, what he sees), as neither Steve nor Tony, or any other person he’s come to know has treated him differently, a person that needs to be examined. Yet, as much as they try to hide it behind their deflective humour or misplaced concern, there’s an underline of caution. It’s just that smidgen, that reminds him of his delicacy, a special case. 

A shard of glass that, with the slightest jolt of movement, he’d shatter. 

He knows he’s exactly what they think he is, but he’s trying to overcome it. He ran after remembering. Ran for months across the globe. Steve found him, and with some reluctance (and a sense of loss he cannot shake from his bones), he joined them back in America. It’s been a few more months, of introductions with the Avengers. Including Steve’s other half, Tony, which he really doesn’t know what to feel; he feels indifferent to the sexuality in this century, yet wary of being with a man such as Tony, but he thinks that’s just Bucky’s thoughts. 

Nothing’s change since he came back. It’s —

It’s sorely tempting to flee again, to save the others the hassle of dealing with him. So they don’t have to listen to him pace the room at three a.m until his legs ache and his head throbs from being starved from sleep for so long because of the past that haunts him. He feels a deep burn in his gut, the rage, at himself for letting his automatic guards drop down. The voice in his head tells him to not make an effort, but he wants to try. 

He sighs, and drags himself to his feet. ‘As long as you’re buying.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Not like you don’t have the money, Stark.’

~

It’s half an hour later when Stark whines to Steve about how much of a jerk his best friend is, and for Steve to reply in a half-sigh, half-reprimand, even though it’s a joke, ‘He’s not a jerk, Tony.’

‘Uh, if he’s taking advantage of my credit card he is.’

Steve sighs again. ‘Not when it’s over two beers.’

‘Which cost four dollars each —’

‘You bought a bottle of wine last week for two hundred.’

Huffing, Stark crosses his arms. ‘It seemed appropriate for an anniversary, honey.’

‘Since when has wine impressed me?’

‘Not when you drink it, but when you taste it on my tongue, or even better when it’s on my —’

He chooses to ignore any further comments, and tries (and fails, fails, a concept he’s not so familiar with) to forget that Steve referred to them as best friends. It lingers in the back of his mind, like a song you hear on the radio and it’s stuck there for the next few weeks. He shouldn’t feel uncomfortable by the odd intimacy of friendship, the deep emotion of trust and loyalty it holds as the definition, but he does.

The beer he drinks is stale, and clings to the roof of his mouth, but he drinks it anyway. It’s not enough to have a real affect on him, but the slight buzz, but by no means loosening the tight, agitated muscles in his back. He doesn’t think it’ll have affect three glasses later, and so he downs a few more, and some more, the amount a normal human being would get poisoned by, and —

It still isn’t enough to numb the stab of pain in his chest that had burdened him since gaining back Bucky’s memories. 

~

The bar is unnaturally quiet when they leave.

He’s remained behind, even when Steve tried to encourage him back to the Tower, and it’s not because it’s late or the bar is about to close, but he can sense it; Steve is afraid — terrified, even — that he’ll bail, run off again, and he’s right to. There’s a chance, a sliver of a chance, that James can flee to Russia, or England, or wherever would seclude him most. He wants to, but despite himself, he needs to stay.

Just like any other night, he’ll return, climb into bed and switch off the light. Under the layers of sheets yet never enough warmth. He’ll stay because he chooses to, not because he’s expected to.

The tension that had started to unravel in his shoulders winds back up when someone sits on the stool beside him. He orders two vodka shots, and hisses as he downs them both, not taking a breath between. He waves for another, and turns towards James. He stiffens, (hopes he isn’t going to —)

‘Barnes, right?’ He looks sideways at him, answers with a simple yes. ‘Looks like I’ve just won twenty bucks.’

He stares at his beer, forces himself to reply. ‘From what?’

‘I bet Stark I wouldn’t get you to talk within fifteen minutes of meeting you.’

The guy is an archer, has to be, from the veins that web his arms, and the shape of his fingers; long enough for fluency, almost light as he handles the shot glass. When he smirks, it only confirms he’s the Barton that everyone talks about but he’s never seen. He turns back to his drink. ‘So, you’re the new nanny?’

Barton snorts. ‘No way. I’m shit with children, but I gotta say, I think I can pull off a skirt.’

‘If that’s an offer to see you in a skirt, I’ll pass.’

‘You says that now.’

‘Think you’ll change my mind?’

‘No.’ There’s a smirk, barely there, not enough to give him an urge to wipe it off Barton’s face; doesn’t think he’s gone so long without that urge, and it doesn’t feel right, but not exactly wrong. ‘You’ll be the one who’ll change your mind.’

He nods, and chucks back the rest of his drink. ‘Right. Sure.’

‘Seriously. I’m close to a world record, of how many people convince themselves otherwise.’

His eyebrows twitch. ‘On what women’s garments you wear?’

‘On anything, that was just an example.’

He doesn’t know what it is that isn’t making him tell Barton to piss off, or just get up and leave. On a normal day — or, actually, all of his days — that sort of humour, any attempt at humour, would’ve gotten on his nerves. He’s surprised he hasn’t broken the glass in his hand. Maybe something’s off today, in himself, or what he tries not to think about, he’s warming up to society, to people. He wants to do that, of course, but he’d never thought it’d happen so soon. 

Too soon. He’d prepared for things like this, drawn out a plan, taken months. Now, it’s come so suddenly, as if taken a blow to the gut. He has to remember to breath, (steady, that’s how he did it; in, out), and it shouldn’t be so hard. He’s breathed through the pain before, like seeing Steve for the first time after seventy years, or all those times they bound him to the chair and wiped his memory. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

After a pause, he ignores the burn in his lungs and says, ‘Hate to think what else you convince people with.’

‘Like I said,’ he shrugs, ‘I won’t be the one who’ll be doing the convincing. Trust me, one look at this, and you’ll start wondering what I look like in a thong. Just takes time.’

James frowns, put off by that offending image. ‘Yeah, we’ll see.’

‘Yeah. We will.’

~

Barton pushes him into the wall of his apartment, sucks a bruise into his neck, but it isn’t dominance; well, it is, in its intensity, but not the way he’d endured. He wants this.

Or when Barton drops to his knees, unbuckles his belt. 

‘Don’t —’ He cuts himself off. Swallows. ‘Why?’

He shrugs. ‘Want to.’

‘But. Why?’ 

It’s so raw and split open that it doesn’t sound like him.

‘Have you never had this done to you?’

His fists clench, hard, enough that blood trickles down his fingers, or maybe it’s not real. ‘Only given. Was told to.’

Barton’s jaw works, a tick jumping under his cheek. ‘Well. It’s different now.’

He expects it to be over within minutes — from the few experiences in back alleys or having to seduce a target — but he doesn’t expect anything, really, he can’t. Barton is sure, skilled, as if a teacher rather than a student. It ridiculous. Utterly stupid to not have expected himself to reach out and grip clumps of hair, focus on the hand that grips his hip, or Barton’s mouth sinking down on him in one, fluid movement. 

It’s wet and hurried and, god, is the stupidest thing he’s ever done, but it doesn’t stop him from closing his eyes, or the choked, almost pained moan that makes its way past his lips, a shock to himself when he’s never usually made a sound.

As a room suffocating to it’s size, the silence emphasises the details; the rain showers against the window, the dry taste of beer on his tongue, the ringing in his ears, and even the strain to hold back any more loud noises that claw the back of his throat. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be letting Barton do this. He doesn’t trust him, and yet, for a man, or men, who learnt to never trust anyone, this requires a hell lot of it, smashes past the wall of trust. So easy it’s like they’d never listened, broke the rules, all in one decision. 

It doesn’t take much more of Barton twisting his wrist at the right time, and the dig or his nail in the skin of his thigh, to be torn apart at the seams, so much that he’s almost irritated by his lack of control, the flood of heat spilling in his cheeks. That’s all he’d ever had left in his life, what he found a basis on: control. 

And it’s all gone, in a single moment, by just one person. 

~

‘Told you they convince themselves.’

They’re lying on the floor, in a mass of scattered clothes — and dirty laundry which, James wonders, why Barton lives in his own apartment rather than the Avengers tower like the rest of them, but he forgoes asking — and is unable to move from the aches in his joints. He hadn’t planned to stay, but he tells himself it’s because they haven’t finished their rounds. That’s why. Sure. 

It’s breaking one of his rules, or all of them, where he’d never get involved with anyone, whether it be a one night stand or relationship. Two, to never remain for a while afterwards, even a few minutes. And three, to be one of Earth’s mightiest heroes, or well-known to the world and those he considers close enough to call friends, with the exception of Stark who, well, he doesn’t know what to refer to him as. 

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Because jumping me was my decision?’

‘You weren’t pushing me away. Think at one point you had a hard on when I never even touched you.’

‘Didn’t think that’d be something to complain about.’

‘I’m impressed.’ He snorts. ‘Guess it was all the talk about how great my ass would look in a —’

He sighs, throwing his arm over his eyes. ‘I don’t —’

‘Yeah, yeah, you’ve made it clear you’re not into that kinky shit. Don’t worry, though, your secret is safe with me.’

Maybe he should’ve left, because this is —

This is weird. It’s completely, and utterly unnatural. He feels out of place, undeserving of being allowed into Barton’s home. He should be in his own bed, alone, so no one else gets pulled into his fucked up, waste of a life. He’s already pulled in Steve and everyone else into it, people he barely knows. He doesn’t even know Steve, remembers him in fragments, but doesn’t know him, and yet feels this inescapable feeling of guilt. 

What he doesn’t want, despite just meeting Barton, is to have the same for him. Yet he does; he accepted the invitation onto his floor, into something which should have been just fucking, but was far from it. It’s already too late.

‘Besides, I think you’ve passed the ‘not interested’ part when you let me suck your dick.’ He pauses. ‘Sucked out that protective barrier of yours, too.’

He stiffens. ‘What?’

‘The one you pull up around yourself whenever someone gets close. So you don’t let anyone in.’ And it’s so casual that it causes a tightness to wring James’ chest. ‘Or let yourself out.’

His guards shutter into place, and he deadpans, ‘Cause you’d know, right?’

‘I’ve been in your shoes. Maybe didn’t fit right, or fill them out as much, but that doesn’t mean I never wore them.’

~

He wakes unable to breathe. His arm clicks and shutters as he flexes it, balls his hand into a fist. Once he’s on his feet, stumbling, trying to find a path through his blurred surroundings, does he realise he’s not in his room, but in a place he’s not used to that it feels as if he’s back with HYDRA, lost, only to be found again and pinned down on that damn chair.

The outside air hits him sooner than expected. He could slide down the fire escape if he wanted, jump even, but he sits on the bottom step of the first staircase, puts his head between his knees and just breathes. Sucks in a gasp for three seconds, lets it out for five. 

It’s terrifying, if the irregular pulse in his neck is anything to go by. He’s an idiot and, god, a fuck up for even letting himself —

‘Y’know, you could sneak out the door like everybody else does.’ 

This time, he doesn’t stiffen, even though he never heard Barton come up behind him. He’s a master of stealth, but he didn’t exactly vouch for not getting caught. ‘I’m not —’ He stops, dragging in another shuddering breath; he’s not used to this, for it to be something else than a rushed, unattached fuck, or a job he needs to complete. ‘This isn’t what you think it is. I’m not trying to — if that’s the way it’s coming off, it’s not.’

It really isn’t. Part of him, (the rational part of his damaged mind) is telling him to leave, don’t look back. Act as if this never happened. The other tells him it did, it did happen, and he’s fallen into a ditch that he can’t escape from, but he’s not trying as hard as he should to pull himself out.

‘Could have fooled me.’

‘I thought about it — leaving, sure, but I don’t think I want to do it for real.’

‘You think? Wow. You really haven’t done this before, have you?’

‘I have. I’ve fucked people, left them afterwards, but it was under different circumstances.’ And maybe he’s said too much, is saying too much, but he’s past caring. There’s no point. He laid himself out tonight, exposed more than he should have. He still did.

Barton nods. ‘A mission?’

He waits, pinches the bridge of his nose and gives the slightest shrug of his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t feel right. I see the door and I think I should leave, off instinct, that I’ve done my job. That’s what happens, what my orders are.’

‘You’re not under orders now.’

‘But I am.’ He shoves a hand through his hair. ‘I want —’ Sighing, ‘I don’t know what I want.’

‘Hey,’ he says around a light laugh. ‘Relax. Take a breather. I know how you’re feeling —’

‘How?’ How could you possibly understand how I feel?’

Barton pauses, and regards him too long for comfort. ‘Guess you didn’t read my file.’ 

He shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘There was this guy, Loki. You might’ve heard of him. Lanky hair? Insane? Well, he, I don’t know what it was, but he did some control spell on me. He pulled me out, replaced me with a slave. I killed innocent people, didn’t even care. I know what it’s like to have that last resemblance of something you have: your control, your humanity, to be taken away from you.’ He looks down. ‘I didn’t suffer for long, so I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for seventy years, but I understand that the pain will never go. Hide, maybe, but it’s something you’ll take to the grave. I know I will.’

And when Barton swings his leg over the sill, crouches down in front of him, and leans close, his mind screams for him to pull away. He doesn’t; in fact, he wraps his hand around the back of Barton’s neck and drags him in. It’s not magical, no fireworks exploding above, but it’s not as complicated as he thought it would be. 

It’s not even a great kiss; his mouth is still dry with the old beer, and his back stabs with pain from being thrown against the wall, but it’s rough and hard enough that he can taste the coppery blood and he doesn’t know who it belongs to, doesn’t care. It’s a collision, with Barton running his tongue along his bottom lip and then tugging it out with his teeth, a clash that causes him to press closer and deepen it. He feels Barton’s grin against his mouth, the tighten of his hand on his thigh, and, god, he just doesn’t give a shit when his lip starts to sting or his jaw aches. 

When he pulls back Barton’s lips are painted red, and —

He still doesn’t know what he wants. It isn’t an epiphany moment. 

Barton sees this, as he reaches up and rubs over the cut splitting his mouth, and smirks. ‘You know where to find me.’

‘I —’ He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite hit his eyes. ‘Yeah.’

He’s left alone then, on the step, in the cold. He knows he won’t have a clue what to make of his future, what to make of the present, but he has to start somewhere. The night is heavy with a chance of rain, he’s sitting in nothing but his boxers, on a guy’s doorstep that, only hours ago, barely knew him and now realises they’re more alike than he thought.

If this isn’t an opportunity to just stick his finger up to all that’s held him back, to give his life a try at something else, it’s better to snatch it up sooner rather than later. 

And when he looks up, he sees that Barton’s left the window open.


End file.
